Revive (4 page)

“Done. And I won't tell that you sneak up the bell tower if you don't tell that I sneak up the bell tower.”

I laugh. “Also done, but we'll have to coordinate schedules so we're not sneaking up at the same times.”

“I was hoping you'd say we should coordinate so that we
are
sneaking up at the same times.”

That would seriously interfere with my plans. Bad idea. But then again. “Well, maybe both.”

“Good.” Kyle scoots closer. “So what other classes are you taking? What else do you do—sports, music, drunk unicycling?”

I laugh without feeling it. Right. The things normal students do. Fortunately, I have this all worked out. Unfortunately, it means I have to lie again.

Chapter Three

Eleven Weeks Ago

Maybe I won't get stuck at RTC forever after all. Just as I'm starting to resign myself to the slow and tedious route, my perfect opportunity to be efficient and effective arrives in the form of something called a pep rally.

The means by which to take advantage of this opportunity came with me in my luggage—a not very well-known but highly useful chemical weapon called AnChlor. About five percent of the population has a natural resistance to it. That means of the eight-hundred-seventy-seven students at RTC who might be X, only forty-four will have no symptoms if they're exposed.

Neither will I or I couldn't be doing this.

For all I know, X might be one of those naturally immune forty-four, or they might not, but it doesn't matter. Because X is X. My most important clue about X's identity is clear: if X is not resistant, he or she will recover from exposure way faster than a normal person. So either way, exposure to AnChlor will narrow down the possibilities considerably. If I'm lucky, it could lead me straight to X. My mission could end today. All I have to do is spread the AnChlor around the gym during this afternoon's pep rally.

That's all.

No biggie.

So why am I dragging my feet?

This isn't even true AnChlor that I've been given. It's more like AnChlor-lite. It will dissipate quickly, and the irritation it causes will subside soon enough. There's no reason for me to hesitate. No reason except that I'm going to be ruining a lot of people's day.

Grimacing, I wiggle the bag of AnChlor that I've stuck in my sweater sleeve down to my hand, open it and carefully sprinkle some of the crystals along the bleachers. Hesitation can be deadly. Someone is trying to ruin X's life. Surely everyone else at RTC can deal with the minor inconvenience of a ruined pep rally and temporary chemical burns.

I mean, what's the point of a pep rally anyway? I've never been to one before, but the idea of it seems silly. There are so many strange, pointless things people at this school do—pep rallies, the Games, and so much time wasted playing around online or watching dumb TV. It's like everyone is oblivious to all the serious issues going on in the world.

Sometimes I get annoyed at them for it. Other times I pity them. Still others, I envy their carefree ignorance. Then I get annoyed at myself.

Adjusting the bag of pompoms in my arms, I continue both my helpful but silly task and my covert, real task. Setting the pompoms out on the bleachers is the perfect cover for dispensing the AnChlor, but I still need to be careful. Keeping watch over my shoulder, I spread a thin line of the chemical along the bottom bleacher row. It's sure to get stepped on this way, breaking the crystals and releasing the gas into the air. No one pays me much attention, and I work quickly, eager to get rid of the evidence.

Audrey joins me after I finish covering the bleachers, and I stick the bag with the remaining AnChlor back up my sleeve. “Woohoo, pep rally.” She makes a sarcastic face.

“Explain to me why we're here again?”

“To support our exciting new football team, of course. They're only toddlers, dear things. They need encouragement.”

They're only toddlers—meaning the football team has only been around for three years. Apparently, RTC didn't always used to be so silly. When I read up on the school before arriving, I was impressed by how different it was than most colleges. No Greek system, and until recently, no football team. The school had a reputation for its academic rigor, and being so close to Harvard and MIT created competitiveness.

But the school caved to student and alumni pressure—and declining application numbers—a few years ago. Thus, RTC has joined the ranks of practically every other college and has their first-ever football team. The pep rally followed as a way to increase school spirit. Audrey filled me in on the controversial details earlier, even though she hadn't enrolled until after the decision had been made.

Audrey puts her hands on her hips. “Can't you feel the excitement?”

It's the student council's responsibility to set up the gym, so Chase, who is the sophomore class president, has recruited a small group of us to help. Most of his handful of friends aren't thrilled to get stuck with the extra duty, but I'm weirdly happy he thought to include me and thankful for the opportunity it gives me to try out the AnChlor. Using it in the dining hall wouldn't have been ideal because people come in and leave too erratically. I need time to observe the effects, which makes the pep rally perfect. I also know from Audrey that attendance at the rally is usually high because the school gives out all kinds of free stuff—boring things like school T-shirts, but also gift cards to the local coffee shops and restaurants.

By the time the gym's ready, I'm ready too. I also have half my bag left. Before the rally starts, I pop into the nearest bathroom and dump the rest of the chemical down the toilet, then toss the bag. It should dissipate before the school can figure out what happened, but in case something goes wrong, I don't need to be found with a supply of it. Its use is restricted to the military and law enforcement, and since I'm not supposed to be either, that would cause all kinds of trouble.

Especially since the people I work for aren't supposed to exist.

When I return to the gym, the marching band is already warming up. Students are pouring in, and their voices echo off the cinderblock walls in a horrible noise. Oblivious to the pain they're causing my sensitive ears, their hundreds of feet stomp up the bleachers, grinding the AnChlor into the wood and breaking the crystals. Finally, all the obstacles standing between me and X are being useful.

“Pep rally—lame,” Kyle says as I join him, Audrey and the others. Together, we traipse up the steps, and now my own feet are contributing to the cause.

“Beyond lame,” I agree. “Pointless.”

Audrey snorts. “Please, who cares? It gets me out of French lab tonight. Thank God.”

“Le pep rally est lame.” Kyle squeezes by me, and I freeze as we're pressed against each other for a second.

Mentally, I cringe. I need to stop that. Stop looking at him so much. Stop thinking about him so much. Stop getting these mini heart attacks whenever he accidentally brushes against me. Once or twice in the past week, when I've been joking around with Kyle or Audrey, I've lost sight of myself and my mission. I've forgotten that I'm not Sophia. I'm not supposed to be having fun.

That's not just bad; it's disturbing. And having just laced the gym with AnChlor, I'd have thought this would be one of those times when it would be impossible to forget who and what I am, even for a second. But Kyle distracts me. That's worse than forgetting in some ways.

I need to harden myself against this weakness, or one day I fear he's going to cause me to make a fatal mistake.

“
Stupide,
” I mutter, although whether it's to correct Kyle's French or a commentary on myself, I'm not sure.

“
Vous êtes stupide.
” Audrey wrinkles her nose at Kyle as she slides down the bleacher. “Le pep rally est…uh, awesome. Now quit it with the French.”

Grinning, I scan the gym. The band is almost finished warming up, the fledgling football team has arrived, and the bleachers are nearly full. Good thing because some of the students closest to the gym floor are starting to rub their faces. The AnChlor must be taking effect. Since it has no color and no odor, I have no idea how much has been released already. I can only hope I put enough down to cover all the students.

Audrey attempts to get my attention, but I ignore her for the moment, busy committing everyone's faces to memory. Last night I hid a couple cameras in here in the hopes they would record anything I missed, but I can't be certain they have the best angles. I have to rely on my eyes and my brain as much as possible. Although I have perfect recall, it only works if information is observed in the first place.

Half-heartedly, I answer Audrey's question about physics homework. Playing my role and doing my job at the same time is annoyingly difficult.

A bunch of people from the student council, including Chase, enter the gym along with the cheer squad, and the band begins playing. I note which students are in the band and which are on the football team. They might be too far away to feel the AnChlor's effects, which means I won't be able to rule them out.

Next to me, Kyle starts rubbing his eyes. “Is something burning? My eyes are itching.”

“Mine too,” Audrey says.

Even though I think I'm prepared for the experiment I set up, the chaos breaks loose way faster than I anticipated. All at once, Kyle and Audrey aren't the only ones complaining. My entire side of the gym goes crazy. Myself included.

Instead of being systematic about how I observe the AnChlor's effects, I turn every which way as people develop red patches on their faces, hands and any exposed skin. They stand, rubbing at their cheeks and eyes, voices growing louder and more frantic.

Stop it,
I tell myself.
Don't be distracted. Don't waste this opportunity.

But instead of approaching the situation I've created calmly and logically, my hands curl around my sweater sleeves. When Kyle grits his teeth in pain, and when Audrey whimpers and Alanna curses, I'm uncomfortable. My stomach twists. Not a lot, but enough. Enough to remind me I can be weak.

I did this to them. For a greater cause maybe, but I did it. I'm hurting people I like. People like me.

No, people like Sophia, who I'm not. Damn. Sweat beads on my neck. I have to stop being so ridiculous. Especially since I'm uncomfortable, I can't let their suffering be for nothing.

With renewed determination, I push my way to the edge of the bleachers, hoping to get a better view of the room. The AnChlor should dissipate soon, but its effects will last another ten or more minutes. Except, perhaps, on X, which is why I need to be observant.

On the gym floor, Chase and others have realized something is wrong, and those who haven't felt the AnChlor's effects are trying to figure out the cause. Soon enough, we're all going to be marched out of the gym. I need to hurry and catalog everyone now before I miss the clue I'm looking for.

But before I can focus, a girl's scream cuts through the general confusion. Like everyone who's not too distracted by their own suffering, I whip around. The bleachers on my left shake and shift, a lurching sea of school colors. Then a single boy emerges from the mass and collapses on the floor.

Chapter Four

Saturday Morning: Present

“Downtown Crossing,” comes the conductor's voice. “Change here for the Orange Line.”

I grasp the trails of this memory, but it vanishes quickly. Gym chaos is replaced by train cacophony. I'm sweating again, my lips dry. What happened next? What did I do?

Just what kind of person was I?

“Soph?” Kyle looks at me as the train slows, and I shake my head.

I don't know where I'm going, but not here. We're not far enough yet.

I'm not sure far enough exists.

Between this station and the next, I plead with my memories to return, but nothing new happens. My stomach rolls with the train's motion. Whatever I was doing at RTC, it was for the best. I cling to that part of the memory, that residual emotion. Finding X was obviously very important. My job was important. I was trying to help someone.

But I was not a normal college student. Sophia was—is—not a normal person. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by this given what happened at South Station, and yet I'm freaking out. I don't dare show it either. I have to keep myself together.

“Park Street.” The conductor's accent makes it come out like Pahk Street. I wonder if it's part of the job requirements that T conductors sound like Boston stereotypes.

“Here,” I say to Kyle. “This is a good spot.”

He doesn't ask why, but the question shows in his eyes. I respond the same way:
We're at the Common. I want the open ground and the crowd.

I can't tell if he understands, but it doesn't matter. And I can't explain why, suddenly, I know Park Street Station is the stop for Boston Common when a minute ago I knew nothing about Boston geography. All that concerns me is that THEY can't be far away.

The crowd lurches in a mass, shuffling like zombies to get off the train and above ground. They're way too slow. I don't like being in this confined space. Plus the station is disgustingly hot, and it's hard to breathe.

Kyle takes my hand. I let him lead the way so I can keep my eyes open, my head always in motion in case I see someone I recognize. They will find us again. I'm sure of it. Until I figure out how they found me the last time—and why—we're vulnerable.

When we pop out of the station at the edge of the Common, I squint into the December morning sun.

December. How do I know the date?

I push the question away. Little by little things are returning. I need time, although I fear I don't have it.

The low sunlight reflects off the windows of the nearby buildings, almost blinding. Kyle and I traipse away from the T entrance and the vendors with their stalls. To my left, the Common is a field of dead grass, dotted with the melting remnants of some old snowstorm. Its many paths are clear, though crowded. Although it doesn't hide me, I'll be able to see anyone coming.

“Where to?” Kyle says at last.

I point to a random path. “Anywhere. Let's walk.”

“How about let's talk. Who were those guys back there? How did you do that?”

I have his hand, so I drag him forward with me, not wanting to explain while others are within hearing distance. Kyle seems to understand, or if not, he's patient and bides his time.

I wish I knew which it was. I'm still not sure if I should trust him, but I need answers from him as much as he wants them from me.

Once we've walked some distance from the crowded outer paths, I struggle for words. “I don't know who those guys were, but bad people are coming. That's all I remember. They're looking for someone at RTC, or I was looking for someone at RTC and they were looking for me.”

Kyle stops but doesn't let go of me, and I falter. “Those guys went after you.”

“I know.”

“But you think they're after someone else?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, straining for another memory, but one doesn't show up on demand. That's wrong too. I feel like there used to be a door in the back of my mind, one I could open at will. From behind it, I could retrieve whatever I needed whenever I needed it. But now it's dark behind the door, and everything's fallen. The memories I pull from there are jumbled and senseless. I trip over facts that were once neatly stored.

“I told you—I don't know. I just have this sense that I'm in danger.” And someone else was in danger too. Kyle? Is that why he's with me, or is it totally unrelated?

Danger. Read.

I chase the unrelated words around in my head. Read what? Something in my backpack? I rifled through it earlier and didn't see an e-sheet or anything.

Kyle's face is pained. No doubt I'm scaring him. And why not? I'm scaring me. This is probably a good reason not to tell him more than I already have. That, and he clearly wasn't supposed to know what I was doing at RTC.

Unfortunate, because maybe if he had known, he could fill me in on the stuff I'm missing.

He starts moving again, though now he's scanning the surroundings like I am. “That cut—you must have hit your head. I think you need help.”

Stay away from doctors.
That thought triggers my paranoia so that my muscles clench from shoulders to feet. Why do I hate doctors?

I shake my head at my Kyle. “No, this is helping. My memories are coming back. What did I tell you? Before this happened, I mean.”

The sun retreats behind a cloud, and the temperature drops several degrees without its light. Our feet crunch on old salt that's staining the path.

Kyle zips his jacket higher as the wind picks up. “Last night you said you wanted to get away from campus for a while. Honestly, you seemed disturbed about something, but like you were trying to hide it.”

“But I didn't say anything else?”

He laughs once. “No, but I'm used to it. You're the only person I've ever met more tight-lipped than me. So when you insisted that we had to go today, I figured why not. You really don't remember any of this?” He pauses in front of me, so close our chests touch. His breath passes over me in white clouds, and his bottom lip sticks out in this adorable way.

Despite everything, I'm struck by the urge to kiss him. To discover if his lips are as soft as they look. Have I ever done it? I can't even remember. How sad.

I chew my lip to keep it from doing something stupid. “Something happened in the bathroom. I blacked out. Everything before that is…” Gone, but I don't want to admit it. It's too scary. “Is wrong. Hazy.”

“That doesn't sound good.” Kyle winces. “Understatements—I've got 'em.”

I smile but immediately catch the shape of several dark figures moving in my peripheral vision. My smile vanishes.

I twist left as my heartbeat spikes, but the figures are only some random people hoofing it in the opposite direction. Still, I don't like it. I should be more alert. Kyle is distracting me, which, given what little I remember, is apparently normal.

He's also checking out the group, or checking out me checking them out. “Recognize them?”

“No, but let's move. I'm getting cold standing here.”

“Yeah, your cheeks are all pink.” He presses a cold hand against my face. “There's a coffee shop down by the Garden. Maybe we can get some coffee that we have time to drink and some breakfast we have time to eat?”

“Sounds good.”

We walk in silence another minute. I've returned to scanning the area, spinning around every few paces to check our backs, but nothing triggers any alarms in my head. There are plenty of business people in long black coats, children in bright puffy jackets with matching hats, and everyone in every variation between. I'm sure I appear ridiculous to those watching me, but Kyle keeps quiet.

Eventually, though, my need for information takes over. “Was South Station where we planned to go, or were we going somewhere else?”

“Like I said, I don't know what you were planning. We got off the T there, and you said you'd be right back, then you ran into the bathroom. You know the rest. Or, well, you don't, but that brings us back to now.”

A blast of bitter wind bites at my ears. I saw a hat and mittens in the backpack but don't feel like stopping to get them out.

My hat. My backpack. I silently repeat it a few times, hoping it will sink in.

I am Sophia. Only I'm not entirely sure who Sophia is.

We've reached the end of the Common and wait for the signal to cross the street toward Boston Garden. Cars zip by, and I fight the urge to stand behind Kyle, letting him block me from view. Anyone could be in those cars. Anyone, like the guys from South Station. I shiver and tug my jacket's collar over my chin.

Kyle motions to a coffee shop on the corner, and we cut away from the Garden. It's crowded in there, but maybe that will help me blend in.

Before we can enter, he pulls me to the side. “What you did back at South Station, how you took down those guys, it was…” The rest of the comment hangs in the space between us, thin and chilly as the air.

“I don't know how I did it. It was like some kind of instinct. If I thought about it too much, I wouldn't know what I was doing.”

“Then you must be really well trained.” He scoots aside, letting a woman walking a very fluffy dog pass. “My dad is big into martial arts. The whole point of training is so that it becomes instinctual.”

His eyes search me for answers I don't have. “Really, I don't know. I guess I never mentioned anything like that?”

“Nope. Never.” He sounds hurt.

I wonder what else I never mentioned, and why. “I'm sorry.”

He takes my arm. “Don't worry about it. I'm sure you had your reasons. I just wish I knew more. Then I could do more to help.”

His words and his nervous tone don't match, but I'm not sure what to make of either. There are so many reasons he might be upset. I don't remember him well enough to guess.

“In?” I motion toward the door.

We get lucky and grab a couple seats together by the window as someone gets up to leave. I'd rather not be next to the window, putting my face on display, but it's that or nothing. And nothing is out. I need to warm up.

Kyle takes off his jacket, revealing a black T-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal shirt. It's the T-shirt that says Sweet Cartwheeling Jesus on it. The one from that day at the bell tower.

“I'll get the drinks,” he says. “Why don't you stay here and save the seats.”

I'm so busy staring at his shirt, growing furious with my inability to remember more, that I just nod. The back of his shirt says Gutterfly, followed by a bunch of dates. It's a band T-shirt.

I press my back as far against the wall as possible, trying to stay out of the window's view, and rub my eyes. Gutterfly. The name isn't totally unfamiliar. Like the faces on those guys at South Station, I know I'm familiar with it more so than I recognize it.

Clinging to that piece of information, I ransack the dark, messy space in my mind. There's something in there. For some reason, I feel as if the more pieces I can put in place, the easier it'll be to unclutter and retrieve the rest.

By the time Kyle returns with the coffee and muffins, I haven't got far, but I have got something. “I like them, don't I?”

“You like what?”

“Sorry. I mean I like Gutterfly. Right?”

Kyle glances down at his shirt. “Yeah, lots of people do these days. Their last album made them annoyingly popular. You remembering more?”

“Not sure. They have a song that goes like this?” I hum some melody that popped into my head a minute ago.

Kyle's face brightens as he takes the lid off his coffee and waves away the steam. “Yeah, that's them. Do you remember any of the music at the dance last night?”

I sip my coffee, grimace and add more sugar. “The better question is whether I remember a dance last night. And no.”

The hopeful expression falls from Kyle's face. Now I feel guilty. Did we go to the dance together? Did we have fun? I want to know. I want to believe we did.

I run my fingers around the edge of the cup. “Maybe it would help if you tell me more. Tell me about the dance and our classes.”

Tell me about myself. I'm reluctant to say that part though. Although I trust Kyle for no good reason, I'm reluctant to let on how much of myself I've lost.

“Never show weakness. Weaknesses—and never real ones—are only something to be expressed in a calculated decision when trying to reach a goal. Use fake weakness to manipulate other people. Don't let other people use your real ones to manipulate you.”

There's that woman's voice again. It grates on my ears. Or, well, my brain, since she's a memory. But there's value in what she says.

Vulnerability is dangerous. I should hide what I can. Even if Kyle is okay to trust, the paranoia remains.

They're coming.

I know. I've met them. Stuff it already, brain.

Kyle seems to be considering, drinking his coffee thoughtfully. “There's a lot I could tell you. It probably makes more sense for you to tell
me
what you remember. Then I can fill in the gaps.”

The problem is: it's mostly gaps. And the parts I remember are not things I think I should share. But right. I won't let that on. Weakness is bad. Mission was secret. Got it.

“Okay, starting backward. Um, the dance.” I close my eyes, begging my mind to release more memories.

One finally comes with the force of a hurricane.

Nine is stalling me in the bathroom. “I think we should go over this makeup thing again.”

“Are you kidding? We spent the past half hour painting my face various shades of…” I consult the containers in my hand, “…Desert Peach and Urban Twilight. Who names these things?”

“Please. Who cares?” She's practically whining, batting her non-mascaraed eyelashes at me.

Above, one of the fluorescent tube lights flickers. Maintenance was supposed to have fixed that yesterday, so how come it's not done? It's making my eye twitch. Or maybe that's the makeup.